


The Bruising of Terezi Pyrope's Bloodpusher.

by waywardCryptid



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Breakups, F/M, Sadstuck, Semi-autobiographical, i guess lol, implied abusive relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 18:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15955229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardCryptid/pseuds/waywardCryptid
Summary: Coin flip: heads you go, tails you stay.





	The Bruising of Terezi Pyrope's Bloodpusher.

You wake up to his messages.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering gallowsCalibrator [GC]! --

TG: hey tz  
TG: we gotta have a talk  
TG: ill be on the roof when you get this

\--  turntechGodhead [TG]  ceased pestering  gallowsCalibrator [GC] ! --

And immediately you know something is very wrong. If something is not already very wrong, things are about to get so, very wrong. You toss on the only clothes you have and chew on your bottom lip as you do so, dragging each step on more and more. You were anticipating this, you knew it was going to happen as soon as you signed your black quadrant away. You ponder whether or not you should even show up or just message him back: 

1TS F1N3, 1 G3T 1T.

Coin flip: heads you go, tails you stay.

It lands with a clatter on the metal floor. Heads, and so you go.

The walk takes forever and is accompanied by dark walls lined with plentiful air vents, which just make your acid tract churn with anxiety even more. You wince as you pass each one, holding your breath until you’re sure you won’t hear a single honk or anything similar. You tend to only walk these halls hand in hand with Dave, as grubbish and silly as it seems. Being beside your knight just makes the meteor seem a little less scary. But right now, you’re walking alone.

You’re scaling the steps when you hear it first.

Honk.

You don’t turn around, just keep walking. You know it pisses your spade off when you ignore him, which is a double edged cane-sword. His footsteps are audible and heavy thumps behind you. Somehow, he ends up right behind you within way too short an amount of time. His arm weasels it’s way around your waist, stopping you from going any further. You shiver against his hold.

“I have somewhere to be, Mr. Makara,” you chide. You’re guided to the side with your back pressed against the wall, and his other arm plants itself above your head, right next to your horns. He smirks and you glare. “This is a time sensitive appointment that requires my immediate arrival.”

He tilts his head in a fluid, sickening motion. Gamzee moves like blood, all thick and languid and in one swoop. Only sometimes does it catch and jerk in some direction. It’s what creeps you out the most about him. “Aw, girl,” he croons, “surely there ain’t no rush for that shit excuse for a flush.” He smells like stale smoke and flat grape soda. You try not to inhale.  


If you had pupils left, they’d be rolling back into your pan by now. “Do not rap at me, it’s awful and we both know it. You’ll never reach his level anyway.”

“My rhymes are PROPHETHETICAL, sister,” his voice is dark and low, “I speak wisdom, baby. I talk miraculous, sweetheart. I preach holy, you lame bitch. Your boy is all blasphemy and the wrong kinds of wicked. He taints your pan,” Gamzee taps your temple with a long finger, a little bit too hard, “he puts in ideologies that don’t make a damn lick o’ sense to none.”

You duck underneath his arm. There’s the scent of a frown flashing across his maw, ugly and with teeth pointing over his bottom lip. “Forgive me, father, for I don’t give a singular fuck.”

As you leave him behind, he says, “no ROOM for forgiveness, baby girl.” His voice gets smaller, and you wish it would disappear entirely along with him. “When the end comes, we’re all sinners all the same.”

 

* * *

 

Dave is still, surprisingly, waiting for you when you finally reach the roof. He’s a splotch of warm, dark reds against the blackness of the Veil. He also has his back towards you and doesn’t turn when you audibly make your entrance. You feel awkward walking to his side and sitting cross-legged next to him. He doesn’t say anything to you for an agonizing three seconds, then rubs his hands across his face and inhales deeply. He lets it out as he says, “are you fucking the clown doofus?”

You can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it. Dave Strider never dances around the point when it comes to you. “I don’t know how you want me to answer this,” you admit. Your voice is a little softer than you want it to be, a little gentler.

“Uh, honestly, preferably.” He glances at you, and you can smell that he’s pushed his shades on top of his forehead, those candy red irises of his burning right through you. You decide that no answer is the best answer, and look away. He sighs again. “I’ve told you this before,” he says, and you know what he’s going to say immediately, “humans have a built-in jealous complex like a motherfucker. Knowing that you’re with someone else— especially him— fucking kills me every time, TZ.

“If I had a boondollar every time Karkat tried explaining to me how quadrants work and how it’s possible to love someone and hate-love someone at the same time, I wouldn’t need to pirate all my money. I’d be set for life. But I just don’t get it, man. I’ve tried ignoring it, I’ve tried to be a guy that can fill all your little box things, I’ve done everything I can. And I don’t think my everything is enough for you.

“I don’t feel good enough for you, Terezi, and that’s not how human love is supposed to work. That’s the type of love I need.” Dave pauses. He lets his words sink in, and fuck, do they sink in. You didn’t think breakups could possibly hurt this bad. “I don’t think I can— we should do this anymore.”

He leaves a space for you to reply, but you can’t think of anything to say. The banter is over, there’s no more quick wit or fast, snarky jokes.

“I bet you ran into him before you got here.”

He’s right, he always is.

“I bet he said his shit about me, as usual.” He’s chuckling now, weakly, but it’s still there. “Probably some godly bullshit.” Then, there’s another thick layer of silence between you two. You take a chance to inhale sharply and take in his image. He’s staring down at his shoes, picking idly at the soles. His eyes smell like smoky cherry, covered by those dumb frames again. Among all the familiar shapes and smudges are the beginnings of lines that scream stress and exhaustion. Dave Strider is cracking.

You say, “so is this it?”

“This might just be,” he says, keeping his eyes locked on his shoes.

You look ahead. There’s nothing but blackness and it smells like lead and licorice. You can’t help but think about how one you feel with the Veil right now, all confusing and seemingly endless and tiring. Any other normal day or night, you’d have fire burning in your acid tract. You’d be snapping at stupid Dave Strider for letting even stupider Gamzee Makara come between you. You’d grab him by the shoulders and yell at him for being so dumb when he should know good and well already that you’re red for him and that’s all that should matter. But it’s been a long time on this rock, and you’re just as cracked as he is. “What are you thinking about, Mr. Strider?”

He shifts, moves, stretches to his feet. “You’re the Seer of Mind,” he says before turning away from you and putting his hands in his pockets, “you tell me.”

Coin flip: heads you go, tails you stay.

You hear it tink as it lands. Instead of observing the results, you bury your head in the crook of your arm.

The prosecution sees no coin, anyhow.


End file.
